


We're Gonna Be Fine

by WhatIsAir



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Probably grammatically incorrect Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/pseuds/WhatIsAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s only when Steve tears his gaze away from Bucky’s crotch to look at his friend’s face that he realizes he’s hyperventilating and it probably looks more like an asthma attack than an inappropriate erection from Bucky’s point of view.</p><p>Or, five times Bucky asks Steve whether he's alright and the one time he's the one who asks Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Gonna Be Fine

        “Hey, kid, you alright?”

 

        “Yeah, I’m okay.” Steve gets to his feet slowly, wincing as he rubs at his right shoulder. The guy who knocked him over – he can’t be more than thirty – frowns down at him with concern.

 

        “You sure? I could give ya a ride home,” the guy insists, frowning as he looks Steve over for any noticeable injuries.

 

        Steve thinks the only thing that’s seriously wounded right now is his pride. It’s not his fault he looks like a strong gust of wind could knock him down and, as circumstances have proven, that a man of average-build walking at an average pace can _also_ , in fact, knock him down.

 

        “No, it’s fine, thanks,” he mumbles, pushing past the guy as he hurries home, eyes on the ground and chin tucked beneath his coat collar.

 

        The guy, _thank God_ , lets it go and doesn’t follow him.

 

xxx x xxx

 

       There’s a question Steve Rogers has heard more of in his entire life than any other. He thinks he’s heard every possible iteration of the question, has heard it expressed with concern, amusement, alarm, fondness, exasperation, worry.

 

        _Are you okay? You sure you’re fine? Hey, kid, you alright?_

        There are few instances he can recall when that question was directed at him and he wasn’t injured, sick or in need of immediate medical attention, and for some reason they’re all associated with Bucky Barnes.

 

xxx x xxx

 

        The first time it happens, it’s 1935.

 

        Steve bolts upright, panting and drenched in cold sweat, tremors running through his body as remnants of the dream – of the memories – appear as vivid flashes before his eyes. _His mother curled on her side, coughs wracking her thin frame as she tries to hide the fact that the sheets are bloody – he’s standing by her bedside and his mother is weakly gripping his hand, telling him how much she loves him, how sorry she is – he’s on his knees beside her coffin, silent tears streaming down his face and Bucky’s hand between his shoulder blades rubbing soothing circles._

Steve takes a deep, shuddering breath. It does nothing to help. He shucks the ratty shirt he’s wearing and pulls a clean one over his head, then lies back down and spends the next two hours trying to fall asleep, matching his breaths to Bucky’s, which are even and rhythmic in sleep.

 

        Finally he gives up and rolls out of bed. The floor is cold against his bare feet as he walks the three steps that separate his and Bucky’s beds and unceremoniously climbs into it. The bed barely dips beneath his weight as Steve carefully clambers beneath the sheets and scoots as close to Bucky as he can manage without actually waking him.

 

        What he doesn’t expect is for Bucky to suddenly shift beside him and before he knows it there’s an arm looped around his back and a hand rubbing circles on his back and Steve’s being held in against Bucky’s chest in a tight embrace.

 

        “You alright there, punk?” Bucky murmurs sleepily against the top of his head, and Steve’s so close to him he can just about hear the steady, reassuring beat of his heart through his thin cotton shirt, can feel the line of Bucky’s throat against his cheek, his Adam’s apple bobbing as the words leave his mouth.

 

        “I am now,” Steve whispers back, tightening his grip on Bucky’s shirt as he falls asleep listening to the sounds of Bucky’s breathing evening out.

 

xxx x xxx

 

       The second time it happens, it’s 1937.

 

        He’s lounging on their tattered, lumpy sofa, reading, when there’s the sound of a key being turned and the door opens to reveal Bucky.

 

        “Hey, Buck –” Steve starts to say as he looks up, only to have the words dying in his throat by the sight before him.

 

        Bucky stands in their doorway dressed only in a faded pair of jeans that ride low on his hips, his absent shirt slung carelessly around the back of his neck like a towel. He’s covered in sweat and grime, probably from his work down at the docks, and Steve finds himself transfixed by the way the sweat glistens on Bucky’s body, how it pools in the dip between his collarbones, how it clings to his defined muscles before losing its battle against gravity and slipping down his chest, over his abdomen, into the waistband of his jeans.

 

        A fresh wave of arousal hits him because Bucky’s mesmerizing to watch and Steve finds himself leaning forward just a bit, tongue unconsciously flicking over his lips as he imagines what it would be like to follow the trail of sweat down the length of his friend’s body with his tongue, whether Bucky’s hands would come up to encourage him _down_ or to push him away, his lip curling in disgust.

 

        “Steve, buddy, you okay?” Bucky’s expression is a mixture of concern and alarm as he begins making his way over to where Steve is sitting.

 

        It’s only when Steve tears his gaze away from Bucky’s crotch to look at his friend’s face that he realizes he’s hyperventilating and it probably looks more like an asthma attack than an inappropriate erection from Bucky’s point of view.

 

        Coughing hard (but not too hard), Steve surreptitiously lets his book fall on his lap and lets Bucky check his pulse, all the while complaining that _I’m fine, honestly_ and _You don’t need to mother me, Buck_ when really all he cares about is how good Bucky’s hands feel against his skin.

 

xxx x xxx

 

        The third time it happens, it’s 1943.

 

        Bucky’s arm is slung around his shoulders as they walk, Bucky slowing down to match his steps with Steve’s. Steve notices, and wishes he hadn’t.

 

        “Bucky!”

 

        They turn together and watch as two pretty dames wave at them and hurry over. Bucky is all charm and smiles, and Steve doesn’t miss the way his arm drops from his shoulders the moment the ladies are within earshot. He also doesn’t miss the way his date’s smile dims noticeably when she sees him.

 

        He nods and manages a wan smile as Bucky does the introductions, forgetting his date’s name almost as soon as he hears it. He does nothing to prevent both the girls looping their arms through Bucky’s as the four of them head over to the exhibits of the Stark Expo, Steve trailing a good six feet behind them, doing his best to ignore how bereft his shoulders feel.

 

        Steve spends the better part of the evening walking separate from Bucky and the dames, unsure whether he wants everyone else to think he’s part of the group or not. He watches as Stark introduces to the audience with a flourish something he says will ‘shape the century’ and ‘build a new world’. When the car rises several feet above the ground and everyone in the crowd _ooh_ s and _ahh_ s, Steve is almost convinced Stark is as good as his word.

 

        There’s clanking and grinding and the engine rattles ominously.

 

        “Well, I did say in a few years, didn’t I?” Stark jokes as the flying car comes crashing back down onto the stage.

 

       There’s a moment where the crowd is stunned into silence. Then everyone starts applauding. Steve looks over to see Bucky laughing delightedly as he leans down to whisper something in his date’s ear.

 

        He ignores how his heart clenches painfully because of what he knows he can’t have, and makes his escape by ducking under and around everyone else, a feat made easier by his slight frame.

 

        He doesn’t even think about where he’s going, he just keeps his head down and walks. The further away from the expo the better. His feet must have a mind of their own because when he next looks up, he’s standing in front of a recruiting station.

 

        “ _Steve!_ ”

 

        He turns, and there’s Bucky, weaving through the crowd to get to him, his cap still askew at a calculated angle. He stops in front of him, close enough that Steve has to tilt his head up just a bit in order to meet his eyes.

 

        “So what’d ya plan on putting as your city this time, Stevie?” Bucky asks, his smile easy, his eyes hard.

 

        “Shut up,” Steve mumbles, pushing past Bucky as he tries to leave, only to have Bucky grab his arm and spin him back around.

 

        “No, you shut up for once and listen,” Bucky snaps, glaring at him, “This isn’t a back alley fight, Steve, it’s war!”

 

        “You think I don’t know that?” Steve can feel the ire rising in him, the same uncontrollable rush of anger he feels that leads to him picking a fight with someone twice his size. “Don’t you get it? That’s exactly why I want to join!”

 

        Bucky looks like he wants to argue, so Steve raises his voice, “Do you have any idea what it feels like to be as useless as I am? I can’t take care of myself, couldn’t take care of my mother, and now you’re shipping out to England and I won’t hear from you for God knows how long and when I do you could be dead for all I know –”

 

        His rambling is cut off when Bucky leans forward and kisses him, just the briefest press of lips on lips, before pulling back. Steve’s first instinct is to scan the crowd and hope nobody saw, because otherwise things would get very awkward very fast. His second instinct is to gape unattractively at his best friend because of all the things he thought were possible, _this_ wasn’t one of them.

 

        Bucky clears his throat, eyes darting nervously before settling Steve’s mouth. “Is that – was that alright?”

 

        “Um,” Steve says eloquently as he turns back to face Bucky, because he thinks there’s a distinct possibility his higher brain functions have been impaired with that kiss. His lips are still tingling with the sensation of Bucky’s – soft, plump, and utterly delectable.

 

        “Believe me, Steve, I know,” Bucky says, apropos of nothing, gaze softening as he searches Steve’s face, one hand loosely clasping his shoulder, “How d’you think I feel every time you get sick, huh?”

 

        “Um, I –” Steve fidgets, scratching the back of his neck, which feels hot to the touch. He’s feeling a mixture of delighted, chagrined and embarrassed, so it’s no surprise at all when he blurts out an unceremonious, “So am I your dame now?”

 

        To his surprise, Bucky throws his head back and laughs. Steve’s eyes involuntarily track the long, lean column of his throat, wondering what it’d feel like if he sucked a bruise high on Bucky’s neck, so every dame he tries picking up tonight will know he’s taken.

 

        “Christ, Rogers, you’re hopeless,” Bucky grins, his smile wide and easy this time as he slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders and steers him away from the recruiting station.

 

        “But what about Bonnie and – uh, Connie?” Steve asks, as Bucky makes to exit the expo and turns them in the direction of their shared apartment.

 

        Bucky smirks at him. “Your date’s Amy, Steve. Don’t mind them, I just thought you mighta wanted a change. Maybe take a dame home for the night, y’know?”

 

        “Only dame I’m takin’ home tonight is you, Buck,” Steve says, smirking right back at him.

 

        “Only for you, punk,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes as the two of them head home together, Steve trying his best to be grateful for what he’s got and not to think about tomorrow, about Bucky shipping out to England, and the inevitable end of everything they’ve shared so far.

 

xxx x xxx

 

        The fourth time it happens, it’s also 1943.

 

        Steve bursts through the doors, eyes immediately going to where Bucky’s lying, weak and strapped down to an operating table. He’s by his side in seconds, undoing the straps and tearing a couple clean off in his haste to free Bucky.

 

        Bucky, who’s staring up at him with dazed, unfocussed eyes. “…32557,” he mumbles, addressing the air to the left of Steve’s shoulder.

 

        “What – Buck, it’s me,” Steve says, worry clawing at his chest as rage like he’s never felt before courses through him. He’s going to find Schmidt, and Zola, and he’s going to make them pay for what they did to Bucky.

 

        “Steve?” Bucky’s voice is hoarse and barely there, and he’s still looking at Steve like he’s an apparition.

 

        “Bucky,” he mumbles, reaching out a hand to clasp his friend’s shoulder – and tries to ignore how fragile and _breakable_ Bucky is, post-serum. He wonders if this is how he seemed like to Bucky, before.

 

        “ _Steve_ ,” Bucky says, voice disbelieving as he stares up at him instead of _past_ him, and Steve’s so relieved he could have cried. As it is, he settles for helping Bucky off the table and catching him when he almost collapses to the ground after taking the first step.

 

        “Thanks.” Bucky keeps clutching onto Steve’s shoulders even after he’s steady on his feet, peering up at him as he does so, brow furrowed as though he’s trying to figure out something important.

 

        Steve opens his mouth to ask him what’s wrong, but Bucky beats him to it with a ‘I thought you were smaller’ and Steve’s throat tightens painfully as he’s hit with a sudden sense of just how easy it would have been for HYDRA to have pushed Bucky over his limit and leave nothing but a hollowed-out shell of the man who’s been his best friend for years.

 

        Something of it must show on his face because next thing he knows Bucky’s hands are gripping his arms and there’s nothing _fragile_ or _breakable_ about that grip, thank God. If anything they’re squeezing hard enough to cut off his blood circulation, and Steve’s never been gladder in his life for –

 

        “Hey, hey – Steve,” Bucky’s muttering in his ear, his grip on Steve’s arms firm, grounding and exactly what Steve needs right now. “You alright?”

 

        Steve feels himself flush because _this_ , Bucky asking if he’s alright, makes him feel like nothing’s changed at all but then he looks _down_ at Bucky and remembers with a jolt that everything’s changed.

 

        “Don’t ya think I should be asking you that?” Steve says, trying for a light smile and probably failing miserably, “Jerk.”

 

        Bucky grins. “Punk.”

 

xxx x xxx

 

        The fifth time it happens, it’s 1944.

 

        They’re on a stakeout, just the two of them, lying on their fronts on top of a rock outcropping, keeping watch on the entrance to a not-so-covert Nazi base.

 

       They’ve been at it for two days, and Steve’s getting seriously fed up of all the sitting around and doing nothing. He supposes that’s one of the fallbacks of the serum: inaction makes him fidgety and on-edge. It’s like his body’s aching to be thrown into a combat situation so it can pump out a metric ton of adrenaline.

 

        Bucky’s faring better, albeit not by much. Steve can tell by the restless drumming of his fingers that he’s itching to get them wrapped around a cigarette or a beer to relieve some of the tension. He doesn’t complain, though; he simply continues his surveillance through the lens of his binoculars, only the occasional fidget betraying his discomfort.

 

        “You okay?” Bucky asks suddenly, without looking at him, sharp gaze still trained on the hidden base entrance, somehow still having sensed Steve’s eyes on him.

 

        “I –” Steve swallows, thinks back to all the times before – _before_ , when that question would be followed by a hand to his forehead, two fingers to his neck, or a hand rubbing soothing circles into his back as he clung to Bucky’s shirtfront and tried not to cough his lungs out.

 

Now – there’s only the still, silent air between them, no comforting hand on his back, no reassuring brush of lips against his feverish forehead. He remembers Stark Expo, and the recruiting station. He remembers the gentle press of Bucky’s lips against his own, soft but firm, hesitant but determined, and the worry in his friend’s eyes as he’d pulled back. _Is that – was that alright?_

 

        “Yeah, ‘m fine,” he mumbles, turning so he’s facing forward again, trying to tell himself that Bucky’s presence at his side is enough. It’s more than enough, and it would be selfish to ask more of him, after everything he’s done for Steve.

 

        Sometimes he wishes he’d remained that kid from Brooklyn, sickly and scrawny, yes, but at least he’d probably have the courage to tell Bucky exactly how he feels about him, and maybe they could go back to how they were _before_. Before the war, before the serum, before Bucky’s torture at the hands of HYDRA, when Bucky leaned in and kissed him like it was the most natural thing to do.

 

        But he’s not just Steve Rogers anymore. He’s Captain America, too, and Bucky doesn’t need any of his crap – life’s complicated enough for him as it is.

 

        So Steve simply grabs another pair of binoculars and settles down (perhaps closer to Bucky than the situation warrants) for another few hours of pointless enemy surveillance.

 

xxx x xxx

 

        Then comes their mission in the Alps. It’s just him, and Bucky, and Gabe. They zip-line across the chasm to reach Zola’s train and split up, each of them picking a train car to check out.

 

        Steve takes out one HYDRA soldier after another, and takes out the one cornering Bucky, too.

 

        “I had him on the ropes,” Bucky says, one corner of his mouth quirking slightly as he takes Steve’s hand and lets himself be pulled up.

 

        “I know,” Steve replies, about to say more but he’s brought up short when yet another soldier materializes and fires at them. Steve brings his shield up to cover both of them and is thrown back several feet by the force of the blast, his shield clattering to the floor.

 

        Steve loses maybe three seconds where he’s trying to orient himself against the rocking of the train car and the dizziness in his head. Dimly he registers Bucky scrambling to his feet and then a series of rapid-fire shots and when he looks up, Bucky’s gone and his shield rolls to a stop by his feet.

 

        He all but throws himself outside of the train in his haste, forcing himself not to look down because he doesn’t think he can make it if Bucky’s _gone_ – then he sees Bucky clinging on to a rail by the side of the train, and the tightness in his chest eases up just slightly.

 

       “Grab my hand!” Steve yells over the roar of the wind, and leans as far out the car as he can without falling out, reaching for Bucky’s hand.

 

        There’s a second where it seems like Bucky’s going to make it, where Steve holds onto Bucky’s hand and doesn’t let go, because _never again_ , where Steve pulls Bucky back onto the train and together they take down Zola, and maybe, _just maybe_ , everything will be alright again –

 

        Which is when the railing Bucky’s hanging on to emits a noisy clanking and sways ominously.

 

        It happens all at once, over in the blink of an eye but lasting an eternity. The railing gives and Bucky falls, and keeps on falling.

 

        Steve stays clinging to the train, hand still outstretched.

 

        He goes through the motions mechanically, and when Zola is apprehended, he can’t bring himself to feel anything other than the Bucky-sized hole in his life.

 

xxx x xxx

 

        After, nothing is the same.

 

        Steve does what is expected of Captain America, and tries not to let it show that he couldn’t care less about what becomes of the war, of America.

 

        The reason – the _person_ he went to war for is gone, after all.

 

        He’s got nothing left to fight for.

 

xxx x xxx

 

        When he points the plane into a dive and watches the ice rush up to meet him, Steve’s not thinking about saving anybody. He’s not thinking about the thousands of American lives his actions will save. He’s not thinking about the dance with Peggy he’ll never have.

 

        It’s nothing more than an escape from a world without Bucky Barnes.

 

        The nose of the plane breaks the ice.

 

        Steve smiles, and closes his eyes.

 

xxx x xxx

 

        The first time it happens the other way around, it’s 2014.

 

        Steve jerks awake to what sounds suspiciously like muffled sobs.

 

        Suddenly much more alert, he scrambles for his shield (which he always makes sure is within arm’s reach, now) as his eyes scan the dark room. His gaze lands on the huddled form with its back pressed to a corner of the room, and he exhales shakily in relief.

 

        He lets the shield drop noiselessly onto his bed and makes his way over to a pajama-clad Bucky, dropping to his knees before his friend.

 

        “Buck, hey,” he says softly, because Bucky’s face is pressed into his knees and both hands (flesh and metal) are clutching at his hair with a painful, unyielding grip, and minute tremors wrack his body.

 

        “You alright?” Steve slowly reaches out a hand, and when Bucky doesn’t protest, lays it gently on his right shoulder. “Buck, look at me.”

 

        Bucky lifts his head and stares mutely at Steve. There are tear tracks on his face and the shadows under his bloodshot eyes resemble bruises more than anything else.

 

“в ожидании протокола миссии,” Bucky mutters, hands falling from their grip in his hair and shifting so he’s kneeling opposite Steve. As Steve watches, Bucky ducks his head and falls silent, almost like he’s – like he’s waiting for instructions.

 

        Something twists in Steve’s stomach, as hatred at Pierce, at Zola, at HYDRA coils low in his gut. “It’s okay, Buck, you don’t have to,” he says, the hand on Bucky’s shoulder shifting so he can rub circles onto his back, reminiscent of how Bucky used to do whenever he had an asthma attack.

 

        “You don’t have to anymore, you’ll be fine,” Steve murmurs, over and over, until something finally seems to get through to Bucky because he starts talking in rapid-fire Russian Steve has absolutely no hope of keeping up with, let alone understand, so he simply pulls Bucky towards him and holds on.

 

        Gradually English starts interspersing with the Slavic syllables, and Bucky’s arms have migrated to the small of his back, until finally Steve can make sense of the words Bucky’s saying, just a single phrase, repeated, again and again – “You’re my friend.”

 

        “Yeah, Buck, I am,” Steve murmurs, voice clogged with emotion as his arms tighten around Bucky, “End of the line, remember?”

 

        He feels the tension seep out of Bucky as he sags against Steve. “Yeah, I remember.”

 

        They don’t end up sleeping. Instead they crawl onto Steve’s bed and stay up watching reruns of _The Real Housewives_ , Bucky’s head pillowed on Steve’s shoulder.

 

        It’s enough because Steve never thought he’d have Bucky back in his life again, and he’s more than happy with what he’s got.

 

xxx x xxx

 

        “Is – was that okay?” Bucky asks, pulling back to look at Steve anxiously like he didn’t just kiss Steve like he wants to jump his very bones right in the middle of the Avengers tower, heedless of how the rest of the team are gaping at them. Clint whistles. Tony and Bruce high-five. Sam pretends to gag.

 

        Steve can feel himself flushing up to the roots of his hair.

 

        Steve’s abruptly brought back to 1943, back to _is that – was that alright?_ and a lifetime of regret that he didn’t say something sooner, didn’t do anything about it until it was too late.

 

        “Okay doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he replies, grinning, as he pulls Bucky back towards him for a searing kiss.

 

        When Bucky opens his mouth and Steve licks his way inside, and the rest of the Avengers collectively groan and someone throws a shoe at them, Steve simply smiles against Bucky’s mouth and gives everyone else the finger because he’s waited a long time for this, goddammit, and _nothing_ short of an alien invasion is going to stop him from doing what he should’ve done seventy years ago.

 

        Which is, of course, when Doctor Doom and a virtual army of doombots show up and start bombing New York.


End file.
